ral, that the same idea occurred
to him now involuntarily, and for an instant it was as though he had
dreamed of his father's death; he even wondered what was this terrible
grief that had overwhelmed him, and thought that he must go and tell his
father about it. He took the hat in his hands, turning it about
tenderly, catching the faint odour of the Old Gentleman's hair oil that
hung about it. It all brought back his father to him as no picture ever
could; he could almost _see_ the kind old face underneath the broad curl
of the brim. His grief came over him again keener than ever and he put
his arms clumsily about the old hat, weeping and whispering to himself:

"Oh, my poor, dear old dad--I'm never going to see you again, never,
never! Oh, my dear, kind old governor!"

He took the hat up to his room with him, putting it carefully away. Then
he sat down before the window that overlooked the little garden in the
rear of the house, looking out with eyes that saw nothing.

Chapter Eleven

The following days as they began to pass were miserable. Vandover had
never known until now how much he loved his father, how large a place he
had filled in his life. He felt horribly alone now, and a veritable
feminine weakness overcame him, a crying need to be loved as his father
had loved him, and also to love some one as he himself had loved his
father. Worst of all, however, was his loneliness. He could think of no
one who cared in the least for him; the very thought of Turner Ravis or
young Haight wrought in him an expression of scorn. He was sure that he
was nothing to them, though they were the ones whom he considered his
best friends.

Another cause of misery was the fact that his father's death in leaving
him alone had also thrown him upon his own resources. Now he would have
to shoulder responsibilities which hitherto his father had assumed, and
decide questions which until now his father had answered.

However, he felt that his father's death had sobered him as nothing
else, not even Ida's suicide, had done. The time was come at length for
him to take life seriously. He would settle down now to work at his art.
He would go to Paris as his father had wished, and devote himself
earnestly to painting. Yes, the time was come for him to steady himself,
and give over the vicious life into which he had been drifting.

But it was not long before Vandover had become accustomed to his
father's death, and had again rearran